


What Sherlock Wanted to Do (Before it Was Too Late)

by Typing_is_the_new_writing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, I don't want to hurt them anymore, I'm Sorry, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Sad, So very sorry, alternate universe-ghosting exists, ghosting, someone take these characters away from me, very very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:59:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typing_is_the_new_writing/pseuds/Typing_is_the_new_writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to go to an über-expensive restaurant, but John says no.<br/>After he states that, Sherlock won't stop sending him the same message.<br/>Then John comes home and finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Sherlock Wanted to Do (Before it Was Too Late)

**Author's Note:**

> Ghosting is a concept derived from Dr. Who. The best way I can describe it is: when you die, the last message you have on the nearest electronic device will repeat until your soul has completely faded away.  
> All rights go where they are deserved: I don't own anything.  
> Pleasantries is non-existent, so I invoke my creative license there  
> Thanks for reading!

As soon as I had just let out a patient, my mobile buzzed, the tell-tale sign that I had gotten a text from Sherlock. 

Hello John -SH

'Hello Sherlock.' I thumbed out the message and hit send.

I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me at Pleasantries? -SH

Pleasantries was a very high-end restaurant. Also, very pricey, not to mention exclusive. 

How did you manage a reservation?

I decided to pull a favor -SH

That really sounds nice and all, but I don't think I'm up to anything today

Please? -SH

I looked down at the screen and sighed. 

Sherlock, your begging will not help the situation. I haven't had a good day, please just leave it.

Please? -SH

I WILL turn off my phone if you don't stop.

Please? -SH

I was getting tired of his antics. 

Please? -SH

With a pointed look at the device, I pressed the power button and shut it off, going back to my work.

A while later, after the paperwork was finished and finally filed, I was on my way back to the flat. I said my goodbyes to the rest of the staff and left.  
After hailing a cab and telling the cabbie where to go, I elected to turn my phone back on. The screen greeted me with a prompt saying I'd received 23 new messages. 

Please? -SH

That same message over and over. The nerve! After I explicitly stated I didn't want him to bugger me, he still didn't understand, obviously. 

"That'll be twenty pounds, please." The cabbie's announcement interrupted my musings.  
After handing him two tenners and a fiver, I made my way up the stairs and opened the door to 221B. 

The flat was strangely quiet.  
"Sherlock?" I called, hoping he was awake so I could talk to him about the matter.  
No answer.  
I walked into the living room, looking for the detective.  
I spotted the mayhem of brunette curls over the side of Sherlock's chair. "Listen, Sherlock, I need to talk to you."  
He didn't even move.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, listen!" I put my hand on his shoulder to get his attention and shook him lightly.  
"Sherlock!" I went around the chair to face him.  
He sat motionless, his head slumped down.  
He was still in his clothes, his Bellstaff coat nearly swallowing him.  
Something was off.  
I grabbed one end of his coat and pulled it open.  
I sat and stared in horror. Sherlock's plum shirt had a giant slash in it, from his left shoulder to the right side of his abdomen. Blood had stained the shirt, too much blood. I grabbed Sherlock's wrist, desperately searching for a pulse, but I knew he was gone. That was too much blood. There was no pulse. 

Sherlock was dead. My best friend, my flatmate, was dead.  
Never again would I bug him to eat or complain about heads in the fridge or have to examine my tea for eyeballs. Never again would we chase criminals everywhere, solve crimes, or just sit and enjoy each other's company.  
That was gone. Sherlock was dead. 

Forever. 

Choking back tears, I pulled out my mobile and dialed 999. 

"999, what is your emergency?"  
"I'd like to report a death."  
"Do you know who the victim is?"  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"Where is the body?"  
"Baker street. 221B."  
"Thank you. A coroner is on the way."  
And with that, the operator hung up.  
I let my tears flow freely now, sliding down his face, leaving trails down my face.  
"Oh Sherlock, I-" I choked, unable to finish the thought.  
I looked over him again, taking in the tragedy.  
Wait...what was that?  
A white paper poked out of the pocket in the coat. I carefully pulled it out.  
It was an envelope.  
Addressed to me.  
In Sherlock's fancy lettering, the envelope read 'John Watson'.  
Wondering what this meant, I opened it ever-so-carefully and pulled out a paper. 

"Dear John,

I have pushed sentiment out of my life for the entirety of it. As you know, I'm not the best at expressing it. However, I believe this may be the best way to confess something. I, Sherlock Holmes, believe I am in love with you, John Watson. I told you I consider myself to be married to my work, but, I think, in this case, my work could be a second priority compared to you. 

With new-found love,  
Sherlock Holmes"

 

Oh, Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants me to make a follow-up story, go ahead and say it!


End file.
